My Frame of Reference

An intelligent, young person recently told me that the Golden Rule doesn't really hold any significance for her. "The world doesn't work that way," she said.

In her experience, people don't treat others as they would have others treat them.  And maybe in her world, this is true.  She had a list of examples she offered to share, and I was among them. I declined the offer.

I recently heard an Invisibilia podcast describing a woman who spent her life not understanding why people treated her badly. She would approach every social situation not understanding that others were in relationship with one another -- relationships that involved emotion, reading emotional cues, and reflecting.  She was missing out on all of the emotional cues all her life.  One day, she participated in an experiment involving powerful magnets, and she got a glimpse into an entirely different emotional world that she didn't know existed. Her entire history was re-written because of that brief glimpse. Her frame of reference shifted.

What do we do when we see others being treated badly? Do we always recognize it?  Do we sometimes not know that we are part of the system that oppresses others?

I know a minister who is a champion for human rights, but when he was asked to endorse a low-energy Sunday service, he balked.  "The congregation won't like it if the lights aren't on."  No one was proposing that we endanger the elders with low lights and trip hazards.  We weren't even going to make it impossible to see the bulletin.  Some people might have needed to sit in a different pew than normal, to be closer to the natural light streaming from the stained glass windows.  In my mind, it was the minister's job to stand up for what was right, not to cow to the masses who might be uncomfortable with change. In my mind, it was his job to tell the congregation that their energy use on Sunday morning was deeply entrenched in human rights issues and care for creation. In his mind, he would lose his job if he didn't play his cards right.

I see that kind of naysayer thinking as part of the problem. Maybe the Golden Rule is not as achievable as I imagine. People are so afraid to upset the apple cart that they avoid taking a stand when the opportunity arises.  They only consider the safety and security of others who look and think like they do.  People of color, native tribal people, LGBTQ people, and women are still fighting for rights, fighting for their lives.  But why are they the ones who are fighting?  Why do we expect them to be brave and push against the societal norms?  Why on earth are we still saying, "but that's not how it's always been done," or "the eldest members of the establishment won't like it?"  Churches do the naysayer dance more than any group I know of, and they're the ones who are supposed to assume the uncomfortable work of the good Samaritan.  They hold Jesus up as their model and then they institutionalize homophobia, anti-environmentalism, sexism, and on and on.

I wrote most of this yesterday, and I wasn't going to publish it, because it's totally off-topic from my previous "thyroid cancer" blogs, but then I read Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's commentary about Colin Kaepernick, and then I saw this local video today.  This is Caleb Stephens speaking to the Lawrence City Commission and Police Chief about Black Lives Matter and the City of Lawrence.  "This is not a educational session.  Y'all are the city commission. You are the police chief, and I shouldn't be the one teaching y'all. I shouldn't be the one teaching y'all about marginalization or oppression."

I challenge myself to let other people's stories be a glimpse into a world that I am blind to.  Next time, I might invite my intelligent young friend to tell me how I defy the Golden Rule, and take her words to heart.  I challenge my own history to be re-written so that I can see the emotional relationships that I ignored because my frame of reference was limited. 

I'm a Potato Super Star!

I'm a Potato Super Star!  I got a sticker at the doctor's office after I got my stitches removed, and it says so.

More importantly, the doctor handed me my final pathology report, which said that I had normal parathyroid glands, normal parathoroid lymph nodes.  It also said that two of my three thyroid nodules had papillary carcinoma, and one was benign.  The two that had cancer in them were about a centimeter in diameter, total, which indicates no
zero
zilch
further treatment for cancer. That's no radioactive iodine for me!  Of course I'm thrilled, even if you can't see that in this photo of me posing as a Potato.

I've got to go in for checkups regularly to make sure I'm clear of future recurrence, and I have to spend some time getting my hormone levels stabilized.  All in the life and times of Super Potato.

Itchy stitches

Potato Super Star!

Meteor Outburst

I woke up from surgery to the sound of a nurse saying, "Angie, it's all over. We're done. Everything went great."

Immediately, I began to cry.  "Oh no!" she said. "What's the matter? Are you in pain?"

"No, I'm not in pain."  I said. "It's just that I came here a fully intact human, and now a part of me is missing."

She told me I was making her sad.

The drugs were weird. I was completely coherent for much of the day, and even had a conversation about biodiversity with a visitor. But then many hours after my last dose of what I think was codeine, everything got funky. If I closed my eyes, the last thing I had seen would become a melted Dali painting.  Or, I'd see streaks of light that were spaced along a grid, as if all of my rods and cones were lit up. And then, I saw the Perseid meteors through the ceiling.

In the vanity

There is no need to tell me how beautiful and strong I am. I know it.  And I know you are thinking it, with the words poised on your tongue, wondering whether to say it, and if it will be well-received.   What you need to do this very moment is turn that bow and arrow around and point it at your own heart. Say to yourself, "I am beautiful. I am strong." Believe it.

Do not fear your own ego, your vanity or self-confidence. Let loose that bowstring and sink it deep.  I can't do that for you, and you can't do that for me.  Dance and sing in the street if it pleases you. Get naked. Love without fear of never being enough. Do that thing you always wanted but were afraid of. Vanity and ego are what make you fully human, for no great sentient animal ever said, damn, I look good in this hat.

Oh, you can go ahead and tell me I'm beautiful, now that we understand that "you are beautiful" is made of pure, fearless truth. Truth that is infinite.  There is no timekeeper of days or years that can erase truth.

Gut reactions

Saturday, a woman asked me if I had a nuchal cord, suggesting thyroid issues are sometimes related.  No, I had a normal birth.  Logic said that this has no bearing, no correlation to my body now.

But then I told her that a boy punched me in the neck in the 1st grade. My hyoid dislocates on occasion.

"Why would he do that?" Her eyes were wide.

Because he wanted to go down the slide, and I was in the way. I didn't know him. He was much older.

"A bully!" she said.

Yes, a bully.  I woke Sunday morning sensing a deep psychologic and symbolic connection between my injury as a child and the injured DNA in my thyroid.

What the bully couldn't have known was that I loved that slide.  It was a place of innocence and joy.  It was a place where girls shared secrets under its shade.  It was supposed to be safe.  The space of the slide was creating an emotional connection in my life's moment, right when he punched me so hard I lost my ability to breathe.

What he couldn't have known was that he was the first of at least six more violent physical assaults on my freedom to be me in what I thought was a safe space.  He did probably know, just like the other six, that punching a little girl is an attempt to take away her power.

I went downtown, to my Sunday dance ritual.  During the intro, Laura, the leader, asked us to place our hands on our solar plexus and breathe with intention.  The solar plexus are considered a source of power, she explained. Then she asked the group, "have you ever been punched?"

"WHAT?" I asked.

"Have any of you ever been punched?"

I raised my hand.

She invited us into our own power as we dance with intention, and to lose ourselves in the dance with intention.

Breathing, stepping, in a safe place with innocence, joy, and secrets in the shade, the dance began.